


criss cross mind

by fortyfive_rpm (2davidbeckham3)



Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: Cameo Appearance of a Character, Getting interrupted, Hand Jobs, Introspection, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Previous Fighting Mentioned, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Wall Sex (sorta), exhibitionism (mentioned), post-Glimmer Twins World War III
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25197931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/fortyfive_rpm
Summary: Mick and Keith slip away after the Rolling Stones' induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Relationships: Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	criss cross mind

**Author's Note:**

> Tentative title blatantly taken from the Stones newest, previously unreleased track, [Criss Cross](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFXTRdog0r8)

There are probably few worse places to be caught making out than a dressing room in Cleveland. 

Though, Mick wouldn’t call what he and Keith are doing right now making out.They were, at one point, but now that he has his hand curled around Keith’s cock, they’ve been reduced to open mouth kisses that have dissolved into panting into each other’s mouths. It’s an inelegant up-against-a-wall affair, more suited for people twenty years younger, though it gets the job done.

There’s a stuttering gust of air against Mick’s cheek that suspiciously sounds like a laugh. “C’mon, Mick,” Keith hisses between clenched teeth, goading. “C’mon.”

Mick should be happier to hear Keith beg, yet Keith still sounds smug, even as breathless as he is.

“I’m the one that should be telling you to hurry up,” Mick grunts, hoping it doesn’t come out as petulant as it sounds. This time, Keith’s mocking laughter turns into a groan under the clever twist of Mick’s hand. 

Maybe he _should_ be more ashamed that he came embarrassingly fast, but Keith _did_ boast about his skillful fingers before pulling his zipper down, and Mick couldn’t find a reason to argue once Keith’s hand was in his trousers. Despite his protests, Mick would rather deal with Keith’s sarcastic pleading than the abrasive taunts that usually characterizes their foreplay. Memorably, Mick once responded to Keith’s taunts about Bowie with his own about Gram that resulted in flying fists and in him ignoring the bruise blossoming on his cheekbone to run his tongue across Keith's split lip. 

Mick has half a mind to leave Keith high and dry, but it’s not like either of them actually care that they’re going to be late to the afterparty in Tom Petty’s house, or whoever lives in the bumfuck of nowhere America.

Keith’s getting close, repeating _“Mick, c’mon,”_ and _“make me come,”_ in the rhythmic cadence of a captivating riff. It’s not often that he has Keith like this, weak-kneed, at his mercy. It’s an intoxicating, heady feeling and Mick’s not interested in going sober anytime soon. 

_"-ie told me to look for them,"_ A muffled voice calls out from in the hall, half-drowned out by their rattling air conditioner. 

Mick starts, feeling Keith twitch in his hand. _“Shit,”_ He hisses, the sentiment echoed by Keith’s cracking voice. Foresight, in the heat of the moment, is nonexistent. Mick knows he looks a lot more than a little bit rumpled, suit jacket beyond the point of repair, too wrinkled to serve as more than a very expensive dish rag. Keith, however, looks worse. Even with his suit jacket still on his shoulders, Keith’s dress shirt is fully unbuttoned, revealing a stretch of tanned skin, evidence of their original plans of getting off somewhere more horizontal before everything was rushed in desperation. Instead of pressing each other up against the first flat-surface they could find, in full view of the door, they should have made use of the couch tucked in the corner, hidden by the ostentatious flower display that some unskilled decorator thought was a good idea.

Mick steps back, trying to move out from between Keith’s legs, except his movements are sluggish, still shaking off the vestiges of his orgasm and reeling from being abruptly pulled away from giving Keith his own. Keith, always with quick reflexes even in altered states of mind, wraps his fingers around Mick’s wrist to prevent him from moving farther away. Mick’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of Keith’s dye-stained fingertips, an unfortunate consequence of Keith’s attempt to wipe Mick’s mess from his hand with the cheap napkins left in their complementary gift basket. They’ve passed salvaging any semblance of decorum long ago.

Charlie learned early on not to look for them after they’ve disappeared, not that he’s ever walked in on them, somehow developing an amplified sixth-sense to avoid the Glimmer Twins when they’re on their bullshit. Bill hasn’t had that luck, though, through seniority, he’s delegated the seeking-and-finding responsibility to the other guitarist in the band. 

There’s a loud click before the before the door swings open to reveal the intruder. _“There you a_ _—_ _Oh, fuck.”_ Pete Townsend exclaims, frozen at the doorway, gaping at Mick’s hand, still curled around Keith’s dick. Ronnie, it seems, was able to pass the buck to another guitarist, this time.

There’s a beat of silence, a pale imitation of an Old Western standoff, before Keith breaks the silence. “D’you need anything?” he growls, irritation permeating every syllable, despite the strained note of his voice.

Mick drags his gaze away from Pete’s shocked expression to glare at Keith for inviting conversation instead of telling their intruder to fuck off, before turning back to Pete. “We’ll be out in a few minutes.” He interrupts, winded, before Pete can respond to the empty offer.

“Sor-s-sorry” Pete chokes out, eyes still glued to Mick’s hand, before slamming the door shut.

They don’t speak until well after Pete’s loud hurried footsteps fade into the clanging hum of the air conditioning unit. By this point, both of their breaths have slowed into something akin to normal, with Keith slightly limp in Mick’s grasp.

“I can finish up if y’ ain’t gonna move you hand.” Keith squeezes Mick’s wrist to punctuate the statement, a not-so-subtle reminder of their present situation.

The gesture pulls Mick’s attention away from the, now closed, door. It’s an obvious provocation, though Mick, feeling generous after their awkward encounter, decides to read it as a desperate plea instead of the pointed jab that it actually is. 

Mick sets a slow rhythm to get Keith back to full hardness, prompting Keith to let go of his wrist.“Can’t believe we didn’t lock the door.”

“He was probably looking to blow you,” Comes Keith’s casual response, flippant and matter-of-fact.

The unexpected statement catches Mick off guard. The accusation is almost enough to make him walk away and leave Keith alone to deal with his predicament without looking back, until he sees the gleam in Keith’s eyes, dark and attentive. 

This time, it’s Mick’s turn to be mocking. He curls his lips into a sneer, “Who says he still can’t?”

“I’m offended.” Keith replies, hurt coloring his tone.

Mick’s movements falter. “ _You’re_ off-” He cuts himself off halfway through, his response, hating how the lack of pretense catches throws him off. Suddenly, there’s too much talking compared to before. Too close to dangerous territory. Too close to the truth. “Fine.” Mick begins to stroke Keith in earnest, not bothering to hide his smirk that the way Keith’s breath hitches. It’s easier to get him to the edge the second time around. “I’ve got a better idea. We’ll sit next to him at the after party and you can blow me.”

The intensity of Keith’s glare dampened by the hazy sheen clouding his eyes. “Fuck off,” he grits out “’m not gon—” The rest of Keith statement gets swallowed by a long drawn out moan, after Mick deliberately drags his thumb across his tip. 

_“_ _—_ _Then,_ ” Mick continues like Keith hadn’t spoken. “He’ll see how I fall apart under _your_ mouth,” he purrs.

Keith’s hips jerk before he comes with a stifled groan. 

It’s not long before Keith breaks the post-coital silence. “He’ll probably think that’s how we write songs.”

Mick should be more insulted that Keith’s still coherent enough to continue their previous conversation about another man after getting off because of Mick’s hand and telling a joke, in the process. Instead, Mick puts that extra energy into his search to clean the mess that they’ve made. He pauses the futile hunt to humor Keith. “By getting off?”

“Or at least how we practice,” Keith amends, slipping his fingers under the lapel of Mick’s jacket to pull him close. “see how long you can hold a note.” Keith punctuates his statement with a shrug, though the gesture is too stiff to be truly casual. “See how I practice my riffs,” at this, Keith drops his left hand to cup Mick’s ass. 

“Shut up, Keith.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Keith Richards says [the Who are all flash](https://www.nme.com/news/music/the-rolling-stones-35-1213428).  
> \- [Pete Townsend inducing the Rolling Stones into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. ](https://youtu.be/WfFtACFYULU) Also Pete Townsend: ["Mick Jagger's the only man I've ever wanted to fuck."](https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.nme.com/news/music/the-who-67-1258478%3famp)  
> \- Literally my first time writing anything smutty in years. Let me know if I need to up the rating or anything! This fic simultaneously has not enough plot, not enough porn, but way too much introspection! It's also my first time writing from Mick's POV so maybe that's why? Who knows!
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
